Enemy of the State Page 18

  Glock reached out to pick up his teacup. His hand was shaking. Halfway, he started listening intently to the rope on the flagpole. The sound meant nothing, yet felt ominous. Every time the rope hit the flagpole, Glock imagined his guests probing into his dark side and he tried his best to hide his tics.

  “Is there no one close to Modin that we should know more about?” he asked. “Does he have close friends? Any relatives? We could avoid having to kill the guy if we could get a hold over someone he cares about!”

  “Modin has a gang of solid guys surrounding him,” Bob Lundin said trying not to upset the conversation with his sudden thought. “They help him. There’s Bill Bergman. He’s divorced and has a daughter. She vanished without a trace last fall. We suspect that Bergman and Modin are hiding her the United States to protect her from Judge Albert Svan, the Russian conspirator. Svan was well on his way to recruiting Bergman as a spy, but then Bergman confessed to Modin. Svan is still furious about that, and in my opinion, we can put that fury to good use.”

  “It’s a shame that Bergman’s daughter is out of reach,” Glock said, impressed by Lundin’s swift and relevant summary. “Who else is there?”

  “John Axman, a gay police officer,” Lundin replied. “He’s visiting Modin right now.”

  “Fags are an abomination in the eyes of God.” Glock drank from his cup and licked his lips.

  “We could cut off Axman’s genitals,” Lundin said. “That would calm down both him and Modin.” He couldn’t help laughing, causing the hot tea to splash onto his hand. He hardly seemed to notice it, Anders Glock observed. Amazing self-control!

  “Axman is a cop,” Loklinth said, a noticeable edge in his voice. “He’s off limits.”

  CHAPTER 38

  BLACK ISLAND, MAY 6, 7 P.M.

  “Who exactly is the stud, Modin?”

  Julia was sitting with her feet pulled up on the couch, gazing out of the window looking at Modin’s handsome friend in the small woodshed some twenty yards away. Axman had gone out to grab some firewood for the open fireplace.

  “A good friend. A diver, helicopter pilot, and police officer,” Modin answered. “We had a little incident a few days ago. He’s come along to protect and support me. Is it okay if we spend the night?” Modin threw himself down on the other couch and rested his head on the armrest.

  Julia froze, immediately realizing that the incident Modin was referring to could have something to do with her brother Christer. She decided not to say anything about her brother’s visit. Instead, she said: “What happened?”

  “Oh, let’s discuss that later. I’m exhausted.”

  “Poor thing. What’s eating you?” She cocked her head to one side. “Someone fucking with you?” Julia was determined to seem indifferent.

  “I would say so. And it’s getting to me. Most of the time, things are fine, but now and then I’m depressed, and then all I want to do is dive down, under the sea, search for Atlantis and never return. It’s the murder of Olof Palme that’s making me tick right now. I’ve got to solve it. Whatever the cost.”

  “The Palme murder isn’t really what’s driving you, Anton. It’s just what fills the hole in your life right now.” Julia had realized that it was his family’s death that was driving Modin, not the urge to save and protect his country. He needed to be distracted in his loneliness, needed something to occupy his mind. He would never get over his loss. The tragedy would always overshadow any relationship. She liked Modin, and always had. As a teenager, she used to worship him. Now she was moved on a deeper plane. They had both kept their vulnerability in a closed box. The lid was starting to come off, but Julia couldn’t handle love. Not right now. Too much was at stake.

  “You remember what Christer used to be like?” Julia said. “He spent most of his time at home, moping. Now I think he was depressed. You must have picked up on it too, because you used to call him Crazy Christer.”

  “We were nasty and downright cruel back then,” Modin said, not addressing the fact that Julia was insinuating that perhaps he, too, was depressed.. “But he was a little weird. Would lose his composure for no reason at all. Wanted to be the center of everything, but didn’t have the resources to back it up. What annoyed me was that he had no clue how he came across. Instead, he let himself be bullied by the rest of us. Likely he still hates my guts.”

  “Probably,” Julia said and looked away. She had a love-hate relationship with her brother. He had hurt her many times, perhaps because she sided with those who bullied him. She was afraid of him, but could also get the upper hand and make him sulk. Their shared secrets created an invisible bond and were coordinated in the same way that blood, bone, and skeleton helped the body to function. All for one, and one for all!

  “Have you seen him recently?”

  “No,” Julia said, lying. “He’s very busy with his job.”

  “It would be nice to see him again sometime,” Modin said and placed his hands behind his head, stretched, and closed his eyes.

  “Sure,” Julia said.

  If you haven’t already, she thought.

  CHAPTER 39

  When Modin dozed off, Julia left the room.

  Axman was sitting outside on a rock, legs apart, scanning the horizon. It was clear. Empty, he thought.

  “Do you want to help me make dinner, John?” Julia called from the stairs. “Modin’s fallen asleep.”

  “Might as well let him sleep,” John Axman said and got up, realizing that he was hungry indeed. “I’ll make the salad.”

  Axman followed her to the kitchen, barefoot. She put a pike in the oven with plenty of garlic and cream. He handled the vegetables.

  “Modin’s been going through a rough period,” he said in a low voice. “I don’t think he’s quite recovered from the incident out at Beckholmen last fall.”

  “The way he keeps harping on the Palme murder, I wonder if he has all his marbles. Could his fixation be the result of the blow to his head? Don’t misunderstand me now, but solving the murder is… Hubris is only part of it. But you know him better than I do.” She turned toward him. “Here, take out the tray. We can make the salad out on the deck.”

  They sat down on garden chairs facing the sea and rolled up their sleeves. It had become chilly, but they stayed put. Axman pulled up the zipper of his padded navy blue jacket and stretched out his long legs. Julia sliced the tomatoes and Axman dealt with the cucumber.

  “Modin is special. I guess you must have figured that out,” he said. “He comes from another planet. Besides, he has lost all that was dear to him. His wife, Monica, and his two small children, Ellinor and Alexander. Under the circumstances, he’s doing pretty well.”

  “You think so?” Julia said. “I think he feels like shit under that cool exterior. He’s a ticking bomb. He could go postal. I’ve seen this before in my line of business.”

  “What is your line of business?” Axman said as he cut the core from the iceberg lettuce with a swift motion of the knife.

  “I used to work for the NSA. Before that for Swedish Defense Radio. I’ve seen countless geniuses fold under the pressure from a bar set too high. If you constantly aim for the stars, you are always underperforming. You just go nuts. Modin has definitely set the bar too high. The Palme murder? Come on.”

  “We can help him.”

  Axman looked straight into her clear blue eyes. He liked her. She was like a man, but prettier. Tall, strong, independent. A modern woman, a far cry from his own mother who had sacrificed her life to serve her husband. “If we support him, that’ll ease some of the pressure. Otherwise it’ll mess him up. That’s what scares me. He needs company when he delves into the darkest corners of his mind, and a pilot to guide him out again.”

  “Is that how cops talk?” Julia said.

  “Friends do.”

  “And are you with him all the way?”

  “All the way and back. If we manage to solve the murder, that in itself would be a bonus. Even if we don’t, we can rid him of his demons
. I feel for him. He’s lost, alone, abandoned.”

  “What about you?”

  “I don’t have the same demands or pressures. I’m quite happy with my life, even if it does bring disappointments.”

  “Married? A girlfriend? Maybe a boyfriend?”

  “A boyfriend in Paris,” Axman said, and started on the carrots. “He refuses to come home. As obstinate as Modin. Never gives up because he’s determined to make it as an artist. You remember Gösta Adrian-Nilsson?” he asked, referring to the openly gay pioneer of the modernist movement in Sweden

  “I get the picture,” Julia said. “You are attracted by energy.”

  She expected him to continue, but he was gazing at the horizon instead.

  “Come on, let’s fry the mushrooms,” she said.

  CHAPTER 40

  After the meal, Julia, Modin, and Axman lounged on the two couches with coffee and gingerbread cookies. It was dark and had started to rain. Water was running from the gutters above the window. It splattered pleasantly onto the rocks below.

  Julia had lit three candles and started a fire in the open fireplace, which gave off a flickering light that could probably be seen far out to sea. But not one vessel could be seen on the dark gray sea. Everything was quiet except the sound of the rain hitting the roof protecting the three friends. Small birds had found shelter in the evergreens on the islet. Only a lone seagull circled high above them.

  “What do you actually know about the murder, Modin. It’ll help us brainstorm together,” Julia said.

  “All I have is loose ends. It all started last summer when I was contacted by Amelia Carlson. She’s rich and influential, hobnobs in top international business circles. She recruited me to solve some of the great mysteries of the Cold War. When I first met her, she wanted me to look into the submarine intrusions that occurred in the 1980s. She said the time was ripe. A new era had dawned.”

  “Wow, how exciting.”

  “As it happened, Harry Nuder, one of my best friends, pilots large vessels through the straits out here. He told me a story about a Russian submarine that was sunk near the Understen lighthouse, not far from here. He’d actually witnessed it as it happened. A right wing politician who had been involved in the incident had given him the go-ahead to tell me about it. In hindsight, it seems as if all had been approved from above. I was supposed to find that Soviet sub. Not sure why, though. Maybe to hurt Military Special Ops. Those who hired me would foot the expenses, and then some. I was given a credit card with an open limit. I did not need to account for every cent.”

  “This is getting better and better,” Julia said.

  “Quite the opposite, actually. I found the sub, as planned, but Loklinth and Special Ops hushed it all up immediately. A huge cover-up to save good relations with Russia. I was told to shut up. The fact that there was a downed Russian sub on the Swedish sea board was supposed to remain a secret.”

  “So, a business woman hired you to find the sub and then essentially paid you to keep quiet? Was this all about business and to save our investments in Russia?” Julia asked. “Money and job opportunities always comes first.”

  “Maybe, but my silence also saves Loklinth’s ass.”

  “So, what happened next?” Julia said.

  She’s listening as attentively as she would in her professional role as an intelligence analyst, Axman thought. Her seriousness makes Modin’s story credible. These are not the rantings of a category five conspiracy freak, no matter how crazy it all sounds.

  Axman could see the two of them gently gliding toward one another. Could this result in a happy union? Modin had a heavy cross to bear, and any new relationship would be difficult. I bet Julia has some baggage, too. Who doesn’t, he mused.

  “In exchange for my silence, or rather, our silence,” Modin added, pointing at Axman, “I was given a reward. I was allowed to spend one night in the top secret archives of the Swedish Security Service, and look at secret counter-espionage files. I seized the moment. I claimed that I wanted to read the report about the submarine intrusions, when, in fact, I wanted to pin down those guilty of the cover-up of the Soviet threat in the 1980s. I’m talking about the cover-up that protected spies, the Palme murderers, and those responsible for the M/S Estonia ferry disaster. I think those incidents are all connected. A good start, as I thought, would be clearing up the Palme murder case. If I can find out who’s behind that particular cover-up, maybe I can find out who’s behind the others.”

  “I quite agree,” Julia said as she leaned forward and across the table to reach the candles. “The murder case is a good start. I was working at Defense Radio back then. After the murder, all private radio traffic was completely blocked from high up. It was ridiculous. A few of the oldies at Defense Radio compared the enforced silence to that right after the DC-3 had been shot down in 1952. It was a complete cover-up, even for those of us who had been given the green light to examine classified material originating with western intelligence organizations.”

  “Figures. I found Olof Palme’s dossier in the archives,” Modin said.

  “You’re kidding me?”

  “Skandia House is a key factor in the murder. The files mention a group that called itself the Barbro Team, and the East German security agency, the Stasi. A big red stamp showed that the murder had been investigated, and that the investigation had been closed in November 1986 by then prosecutor Klas Berg, now the very dead Superintendent of the Security Service. Before I could read what he had written, I was interrupted and chucked out of the archive. Everything was on high alert and lock-down because, coincidentally, Klas Berg had died of a sudden heart attack that very night.”

  Modin realized that his pulse had elevated. His back and the palms of his hands had become warm. He wiped his hands on his jeans, had a sip of lukewarm coffee, and awaited his friends’ reaction.

  “Wait a minute, Klas Berg, the Security Service chief who died, was the one who closed the Palme investigation?” Axman said.

  “Yes, and he was the one who allowed me access to the archives. At the time, it seemed that they rescinded my permission to be at the archives because they suspected foul play and that my presence had something to do with it. It didn’t, of course.”

  “I believe you,” Julia said. “A cover-up means danger for those involved. You know that, right?”

  “All too well.” Modin and Julia glanced at each other.

  “Why are you surprised the case is closed?” Axman interrupted. their little moment, smiling. “They caught the guy, didn’t they? I thought it was Christer Pettersson, a criminal.”

  “I don’t think so. If Christer Pettersson had fired the two quick shots that killed Palme, they wouldn’t have had to cancel the investigation and declare the file top secret. Instead, they would have been quite forthcoming with the results of he investigation. Bottom line, for some reason they couldn’t walk around shooting their mouths off about those who were involved. Could have been the authorities, could have been the Security Service, could have been a foreign power,” Julia said. “That’s normally why cases are closed and labeled top secret. And if it were to become public that the Swedish government is covering up the murder of Prime Minister Palme, Swedish national security and the nation’s credibility would be severely compromised. That’s why anyone touching this is in danger.”

  This time Julia and Modin both looked at Axman. He didn’t flinch.

  “Wasn’t it Olof Palme’s widow Lisbet who pointed to Christer Pettersson?” Axman said.

  “Yep, and supposedly, she was one hundred percent sure,” Julia said.

  “No one can be one hundred percent sure,” Modin said.

  “What a mess,” Julia said, putting her hand under her chin. “Back then it was an open secret at Defense Radio that there were people who wanted to get rid of Palme. And whoever these people were, they tried to get rid of him before. Remember the Harvard Affair? A clear case of planned character assassination.”

  “How do you know?�
�� Axman said frowning.

  “Well, Olof Palme traveled to the U.S. to give a series of lectures so he could get his son into Harvard without having to go through the normal procedures,” Modin explained. “Palme forgot to mention his tax free income from these lectures to the Swedish Tax Authorities. A Swedish journalist, Jan Guillou, blindsided him with it in a live broadcast on radio. Oddly enough, the journalist happened to be leaning ultra-left. This didn’t make sense at the time, given that the ultra-left was Palme’s die-hard constituency. An indication that Palme had enemies all over the place.”

  “What does the Harvard Affair actually have to do with Palme’s murder?” Axman asked. “Isn’t that just speculation?”

  “Palme’s appeal statement regarding this tax return vanished without a trace from the court archives a few hours before the murder on February 28, 1986. That’s not speculation.”

  “So?” Axman challenged.

  “It’s just too much of a coincidence. At about 6:30 P.M. on that fateful Friday evening, someone stole Olof Palme’s tax appeal document from the County Court archives and erased all traces in the database about the matter. Later that evening, around 11 P.M., Palme is murdered. That’s all out in the open in the investigative commission report on the Palme murder, SOU 1999:88. See for yourself.”

  During their conversation, Modin had surfed in the Swedish government website, looking for documents about public investigations. He found the investigative commission report on the Palme murder, SOU 1999:88, opened the document discussing the Harvard Affair, and turned the screen so Axman and Julia could see.

  “I agree. That is a bit too coincidental,” Axman said after he read the statement on Modin’s lap top. “The odds that a prime minister is murdered on the same evening as his appeal calls a judge’s decision into question and the document dealing with all this disappears, are so low they can’t be calculated. In other words, the probability is around zero. Solving this theft might well lead to the murderer. Or murderers, if your conspiracy theories are true. Did no one ever find out what had happened at the County Court archives? Was anyone suspected of stealing the paperwork?”